


Follow Me

by starstruck1986



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:12:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstruck1986/pseuds/starstruck1986
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warnings: Minor Character Death, mentions of suicide, grief, alcohol abuse, tender slashy boy love.<br/>Summary: Ron can hide, but Harry will always follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow Me

**Follow Me**  
  
The kitchen was dark and all Harry could see of Ron was his silhouette against the back window. Even in the black Harry could see the rise and fall of Ron's hand to his mouth, whilst his fingers clutched a drink.  
  
 _Hasn't even bothered to put ice in tonight._  
  
Harry wasn't surprised and he severely doubted that anybody in the house was asleep that evening. Burying one twin in May 1998 had been hard enough, but for the second to follow three years later threatened to tear the fabric of the family apart. Half of them were on calming draughts.   
  
He wasn't sure why the pain hurt so much _more_ that time round; if it was so much worse because George had taken it upon himself to end his own life, whereas Fred had died for a cause, in an accident. George's painless, silent death had been utterly calculated. The note said so.  
  
 _Not what you'd expect from someone as colourful as him... he could have at least set off some fireworks..._  
  
Harry shook the inappropriate thought from his head and continued to stare at Ron's back. Whether Ron was ignoring him, or whether he was genuinely wrapped up in his thoughts, Harry wasn't sure -all he _was_ sure of was that the midnight drinking had to stop.  
  
Leaning against the door frame, Harry cringed when the old wood creaked, giving away his position; Ron remained staring out of the window. It was only after knowing the redhead for so long that Harry could detect the tell-tale lengthening of his spine which sang of tension in Ron's long bones.  
  
“Alright, I'm here,” Harry muttered, giving up the pretence and stepping into the kitchen. “But you should be in bed.”  
  
Ron's shoulders shrugged as he answered with a sullen, “You're funny, Harry.”  
“I'm right,” Harry pointed out. “You know I am.”  
  
There was a loud bang as Ron slammed his glass down on the side and set the bottle to refill it.  
  
“I don't care.”  
“I care.”  
  
Ron huffed as he turned, folding his arms over his chest as he went.   
  
“Can I light the candles?”  
“No.”  
“But-”  
“Harry, just leave it.”  
  
They fell into awkward silence and, as opposed to clamming up, Harry found himself brimming with things to say to his best friend. He bit his tongue to keep it all inside, from a promise that he wasn't to blame, to a plea to stop drinking, to something else entirely different, and so deep that it made his insides ache.  
  
It was something he had been hiding for three years, since the end of the war, and he had promised himself that he would never mention it.   
  
_But that was before this. Before George showed us all how fucking meaningless it all is anyway._  
  
“I miss George,” Harry said, dropping down to sit at the kitchen table. “I miss him.”  
“I miss him too,” Ron said stiffly.  
“Today was...”  
“Awful, worse than Fred.”  
  
There was a light scrape on the floor as Ron also sat down and hung his head.  
  
“You know what's the worst thing?” Ron asked thickly.  
“What?” Harry asked, holding his breath, wondering if his friend might finally be about to open up.  
“I don't even think he killed himself because of Fred. I don't think it had anything to do with the death at all.”  
“How d'you mean?” Harry frowned.  
“I'm not saying Fred had nothing to do with it... because he did, George lost the spark, his partner in crime... I was never good enough to fill that spot. I didn't want to.”  
“No...” Harry fought off the urge to reach for Ron's hand.  
“But the inside of him was changed. He wasn't the same person which is really fucked up... nobody should need somebody else to live, Harry.”  
  
“There were times when I couldn't have lived without you.” Harry kept his voice soft, hoping not to scare Ron away.  
“But you wouldn't have done what George did,” Ron said confidently.  
“How do you know?” Harry levelled. “I was a mess at plenty of points. If I'd not had you, or Hermione, or the legion of other people looking out for me, then... yeah.”  
“This isn't about you,” Ron muttered.  
“What?” Harry blushed. “I know that. I'm just-”  
“Trying to make me feel better, I know.”  
“You're bloody impossible when you're like this.”  
  
Ron shrugged again and sipped at his drink.  
  
“Why the secret midnight drinking?”  
“Because if I do it in the day, everyone will see how weak I am.”  
  
It was a blunt answer that Harry had not been expecting, not at all -Ron was never normally so forthcoming.  
  
“You're not weak,” he ruled immediately. “And if you were... I think today would be a day to be weak, Ron.”  
“Oh, I'm fucking weak alright.”  
  
The sneer could be heard in Ron's tone, even though Harry couldn't see the curling of his lip. There was another hard gulp and a hiss as the whisky burned Ron's throat, and then another clunk as the tumbler slammed into the wood.  
  
“I don't want to talk any more.”  
“You never want to talk.”  
  
Harry knew, deep down, that he shouldn't push. Ron always talked when he was ready and never a moment before, and pushing had never got him nor Hermione anywhere in the past. All day long, however, the youngest Weasley male had been the epitome of calm, and hadn't shed a single tear during the funeral. His head was held with almost magnificent stature. Harry had been watching him with fascination all day.  
  
 _Which is why I got up tonight, of course..._  
  
Feeling guilty that he should want to spy on the moments that his best friends gave in, Harry swallowed the lump in his throat and waited for Ron to speak again.  
  
“Why'd you come down here, Harry?”  
“I was worried about you.”  
“Afraid I'd do myself in?”  
“Maybe.” Harry wasn't about to deny that he'd considered the possibility.  
“I won't, too weak to do anything as brave as that.”  
“You think George was brave?” Harry whispered.  
“Yeah,” Ron traced his forefinger over the grooves in his mother's kitchen table. “It hurt him to stay here, and he went.”  
“Some would say that was selfish.”  
“I think he was brave,” Ron repeated. “He hasn't lived his life for anybody else... and I think staying alive would have meant that he was.”  
“Most people don't look at suicide that way.”  
“Because they can't understand it.” Ron's tone darkened. “They can't understand what it's like to feel that nobody can make you happy, that nobody can warm you up. That nobody cares. That they've got no purpose to keep on living. All they feel is their own pain, and they resent you for dying.”  
“Do you feel that way, Ron? Have you... are you...”  
  
There was a laugh which sent chills racing up into the base of Harry's skull. It died away and Ron answered no further.  
  
“Because if you did... I'd want to know. So I could be prepared...” Harry lied.  
“Harry, we're not having this conversation.”  
“We fucking are,” he retorted hotly. “If you're going to off yourself I want fair warning... you know... pick out... a... good suit.”  
  
He struggled for words, partly because of the fact that what he was saying was so ridiculous, and partly because of the fact that he was utterly distracted by the heavy sniff which cut across the darkness -the sniff of a man desperately trying to hold in his tears.  
  
“Ron.” Harry stood and made his way around the table, stopping only when he could sit next to his friend. “Ron, talk to me.”  
“What good will that do?” Ron's voice tightened further. “It's all been said before by other people... it doesn't matter.”  
  
Harry strained for words which wouldn't sound trite or condescending.  
  
“Harry?” Ron's voice was nasally clogged, indicating the thickness of snot and tears. “Go away.”  
“Why?”  
“Because I don't want you to see me... like this...”  
“I'm not going anywhere.”  
“Fuck you, Harry,” Ron choked, and got to his feet.  
  
Despite the heat in his cheeks, Harry followed.  
  


* * *

  
  
Ron cracked open one eye and shut it again quickly. The room wasn't bright, but was bright enough for his throbbing head. He had hoped that Harry wouldn't chase him, and wouldn't make an issue of the emotion which had escaped against his will.  
  
He had hoped further that he would leave after half an hour.  
  
Nothing he had hoped for had happened. Harry was curled next to him in a warm little ball, which Ron could feel under the blankets which they both laid beneath. Shifting awkwardly his foot brushed along a bony ankle and he froze.  
  
“Mm, nice,” Harry groaned sleepily, burrowing his cheek into the pillow. “More.”  
  
Breathlessly, Ron stroked with his bare foot again, feeling the silky, hot flesh connect to the hairs that crept down his friend's ankle bone.  
  
“Ron...” Harry's breath was heavy as he huddled closer and threw an arm over Ron's belly, holding him in place.  
  
Unable to breathe, Ron waited as Harry's leg crossed over his own and locked him into place.  
  
The weight of the other man's head on his shoulder felt comfortable and warm; Ron only realised then that he was cold. Lying in bed, fully entangled with a wizard he had known since he was eleven should have felt odder, Ron assumed.   
  
_But it feels so... nice._  
  
Exhaling, Ron tried to fight off the numbness in his head. Harry cuddled closer, seemingly unaware of the intimacy he was instigating; Ron knew his friend was oblivious when a sweet, damp kiss pressed into his throat.  
  
Another swiftly followed and he shivered, not from disgust but from the odd sensation. It had been months since anybody had kissed him so tenderly. He had been so involved in trying to keep George on his feet that there had been no time for a partner, someone to go home to in the evening to give him a kiss and pour him a drink and simply tell him that he was doing his best.  
  
Hermione had tried, but now that she no longer shared his bed, her assurances weren't the same. Ron didn't miss their relationship -he simply missed the openness that had come with it.  
  
“How are you this morning?” Harry sounded more awake and Ron coughed as he moved to answer.  
“Head hurts.”  
“Not surprised.” Harry's little snort of laughter tickled Ron's skin.  
  
Ron waited until the mirth had passed on before he spoke again. “Why are you here?”  
“Why am I where?” Harry yawned.  
“In my bed... cuddling me,” Ron tried to sound as nonchalant as possible, hoping to conceal the fact that his heart was thrumming.  
“Erm.”  
“Got nothing better than that?” Ron felt the first true inklings of a smile on his lips for the first time in weeks.  
“Pretty much.”  
“Right.”  
  
Neither of them moved, but Harry's lips were close to Ron's neck all the while and he was tempted to shift sideways, to earn himself one of the odd little smooches which felt so good.  
  
“We'll talk about this later, yeah?” Harry lifted his head suddenly, and Ron opened his eyes.  
  
Emerald met sapphire and they stared.  
  
“Now,” Ron ground out. Harry's fingers came up to caress along his stubbled jaw.  
“I don't want to... hurt you,” he whispered in response.  
“I'm buggered anyway, Harry.”  
“But this is... me and you... in bed, doing what I've wanted for months but you didn't see because you were helping George... and Merlin knows that didn't stop me from wanting you.”  
“What?”  
“Just looking at how you cared for him... the things you'd do, the look on your face. It's been a long while... maybe never... since you looked at me that way.”  
“You're jealous of the time I spent trying to stop my brother from killing myself?” Ron gaped.  
“No, don't put it like that.” Harry scowled. “No. It's... you're you and you worked so hard.”  
“Not hard enough.”  
“Don't blame yourself.”  
“Too late, he's dead. Not coming back. Gone. Dead. Fuck, buried now too. Worm food. Fucking worm food, Harry, all because I worked late that night.”  
  
They stared at one another again and Ron couldn't stop his eyes from filling up again.  
  
“Have you really got any more of these left in you?” Harry teased gently, his thumb catching one of the tears as it fell.  
“I hoped not.”  
“Tough,” Harry lifted his thumb to his mouth and sucked the salty moisture off it.  
  
“Well... that was weird...” Ron blinked in surprise.  
“I... fuck.”  
“Yeah.”  
“Maybe we should just go back to sleep?” Ron sniffed. “Forget this?”  
“Don't forget it,” Harry's voice suddenly turned to a plea that Ron didn't immediately understand. “Please don't.”  
“But-”  
“Don't,” Harry's voice hardened.  
“Okay,” Ron whispered.  
  
“So...”  
“Let's just go to sleep,” Ron pulled Harry down and wormed his arms about his trim waist. Holding him felt like calm -or like calm had felt the last time he'd been blessed to feel it.  
“I'll still love you when we wake up,” Harry pointed out.  
“And I'll still blame myself for George's suicide.”  
  
Impasse reached, they both felt silent, and Ron knew Harry wasn't asleep as he himself drifted off again, held in the warm embrace of his best friend.  
  


* * *

  
  
“It's midday, Ron... are you alright?”  
  
Molly Weasley banged impatiently on her youngest son's door and waited; she ignored the tremor of her arm as she knocked again, a tremor put there by grief and stress.  
  
When no answer came, fear seized the witch and in turn made her seize the door handle. It turned easily, unlocked, which frightened her. Ron always locked his door, a perpetual habit of the youngest son, always trying to keep his privacy from the older brothers who terrorised him.  
  
The door creaked open and Molly poked her head around, afraid to look. When she saw two bodies stretched out side by side in one bed, the sheets tangled around them and their bodies huddling together, her breath caught in her throat. Ron's face was the sort of peaceful she hadn't seen him exude in months, possibly years. His eyelashes were just short of skimming his cheekbones, which were flushed with the heat of sleep. Harry's face was hidden but his hold was possessive. Ron's was not far behind.  
  
It was an odd sight to behold and an even odder situation to try and understand, but Molly didn't really do either as she stood there -all she could see was the calm of Ron's expression, and the deep, even peace of his breaths as he slept.  
  
All of a sudden, however, his startlingly blue eyes flicked open and stared at her. His lips parted, as if he wanted to speak, to explain -maybe to apologise, Molly thought.  
  
Silently she lifted her index finger to her lips and pressed it there, telling him that everything was fine. Ron blinked once before falling asleep again. She knew that he wouldn't remember her in the morning.  
  
With the anxiety in her chest soothed just a small amount, Molly backed from the room, and closed the door behind her. Outside she leant against it, putting one hand on her chest and rubbing absent-mindedly as she stared at the carpet. She wondered if her children would stop finding ways to surprise her. She had thought Charlie would never leave the countryside that he grew up in. She had thought that George would be stronger. She had never thought that Ron might need the physical comfort and love of another man.  
  
The thought still calmed her however, as she remembered the look on his face. It was with that she set off down the stairs, determinedly not looking at the twins' old bedroom so that her momentary happiness remained for as long as she could cling to it.


End file.
